


In The Dark of The Night

by Heartithateyou



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:05:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heartithateyou/pseuds/Heartithateyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither of them can sleep through the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Again he woke. The same nightmare, the same race of his heartbeat. Lately he had been able to forget it, this dream, this feeling. He and Sherlock were usually up all hours of the night, not condusive to dreams or nightmares. But since they have solved their last case early, they had taken to bed from exhaustion. 

But now, now his body raced with the feeling of being back, back to hearing the bombs explode as he saw his friends die.

His couldn't sleep.

Not like this.

Sherlock.

He grabbed his blanket, worn and only a tad tatty, and wrapped it around himself as he opened the door. He quietly shuffled down the hall, hoping for the best but expecting the worst. Finally, he reaches Sherlock's door and his hand quivers as he opens it.

"Sherlock." He whispers quietly into the dark room.

The room remains quiet.

"Sherlock." He says, louder this time.

Still, the room remains silent.

Finally he shuffles over to the bed. He can see the outline of his body in the sheets, his eyes still shut tightly. 

"Sherlock." He says, nudging his back slightly. "Hmmm." He recieves as a response. "I can't sleep. I... Can I just sleep here the night?" John barely whispers, afraid of what he might say.

"Don't hog the sheets." Sherlock murmurs before moving over half an inch.

John finally lets out his breath, the one he's been holding in since he entered this room. Sherlock's room.

And every so carefully, he slides into the bed and finally can feel his body relax. He feels his body untense, his hand's become unclenched. He listens to Sherlock's quiet, rythmic breathing and feels his own breath slow to match his. His heart starts to slow again. And above all, he feels Sherlock's warmth. The man they call so cold, is warm next to his. The reminder he is not alone, not having the cold creep around him and his loneliness, this is what finally lulls him off to sleep.

In the morning he wakes to the sun in his eyes, not accustomed to an east facing room. The room is warm and bright, it smells like clean laundry and the old hint of tobacco, and the bed feels soft and warm.

And Sherlock is gone.

The empty compression of his figure is all that remains.

He idly runs his hands over the grooves that remain, the indent of his head on the pillow, his body that laid in the sheets.

Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

And then he heard the shot.

One, two, three. "Sherlock!" He hollers, stumbling out of bed as he runs to the door.

He opens it in time to see Sherlock firing off his fourth shot to the smiley face. "Stop it!"

"Bored!" Sherlock says as he finally lowers his gun. 

"Well the take up knitting or something! Stop destroying the flat!" As he yells this, he's still happy to see Sherlock, here, in this flat, and he doesn't know why.

"I need a case!" Sherlock yells as he scratches his head with the gun. God, he would have been crap in the army.

"Then find one!"

"Fine!" He yells as he puts the gun down. He heads to the door and grabs his coat and scarf. "I will! I will go and find one!" Is all he says before thrusting open the door and sprinting out of the flat.

Slowly, he sinks to his chair, the flat door still ajar. That's fine then. Sherlock can go off on his own and he doesn't need him. Who would need John Watson anyway. Who would need a washed up army doctor. 

He grabs his laptop, and starts to read through their blogs. His blogs. Who would need the blogger.

He reads through every case they've had, everything they've been through and realizes how close he thought they were. But apparently they're not, for Sherlock to run off on his own without a thought otherwise. He can barely feel the tears running down his face as he reads their cases, one after another. He thought they were a team. He thought...

He shouldn't have thought anything, as he wipes the tears from his face. He closes his laptop, finally realizing how dark the room is around him. He quickly brushes his teeth in the bathroom, avoiding his reflection. He makes his way to his room, and dons his pjs of plaid pajama pants and faded t-shirts and tries to forget about last night. Everything about last night. How Sherlock felt so warm, the slight cinnamon scent of his toothpaste, his slight murmurs in his sleep.

He needs to go back to this, to sleeping along, to not thinking about-

He wraps himself in his blankets and tries to count himself into sleep, an old army trick.

He's nearly asleep when he hears his door open quietly.

He tries to keep his breathing normal as he hears footsteps approach his bed.

"I didn't. I was going to but I couldn.t"

"Sherlock?" He says as he finally rolls towards him. And what he sees isn't the Sherlock he knows. It's the broken man only Mycroft has told him about.

"John, I was going to..." Sherlock breaks away from his gaze, for once not being able to annunciate his actions.

"You were going to get your fix. Not a case though.... Your other fix." He murmurs slightly, staring at the pillow next to him instead of Sherlock.

"I couldn't. I couldn't." Sherlock looks perplexed, for maybe the first time. "May I sleep here? I understand if you say no, I was... unexcusable."

"Just don't...hog the covers." He breaks off with a smile. And this inspires a smile in Sherlock, who quietly tries to hide it before he can see. But he removes his overcoatm the scarf, meekly his pants and shirt before he climes in beside him.

"You know, you murmur in your sleep." I whisper to him.

"Yes and you snore in yours. Now quiet, I'm tired." He says before turning over. Then I feel the soft pressure of his hand on my arm, pulling it to lay over his body. His hand still holds mine.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

"It's the drug flashbacks."

"What." I murmur, still trying to awake myself.

"That's what I have nightmares about, John."

I clutch his hand tigher, not sure what else to say.

"I know yours are about the war, I've seen them before. You fell asleep on the couch one time, it was after a case, and I could see you fighting in your sleep. You were so scared. And I needed to stop it. So I played the violin. It woke you up and you were mad at me for playing at 2 am and I was... I was happy to see you so mad at me."

For a second, I am shocked. I am in awe. I am so upset. And I don't know how to thank him. All those times I thought he was being an arrogant sod for playing at 2 am and really...

"Thank you." I mutter. "All those times I was mad at you, I meant thank you."

"Of course John, I'm not an idiot."

"So yours are drug flashbacks..." I trail off, not knowing where to go from here.

"Yes John." He's quiet a moment, I can practically hear his mind thinking. "I..."

"You don't need to say anything Sherlock... I'm here now" And for a moment I think I have crossed a line, the invisible one we have never spoken about but is always there.

"I know John... And you know... You know why I couldn't go back last night. Back to the way I was." He pauses a moment. "Thank you."

"Sherlock, you will never know what I owe you and how happy I am I could... I could do this for you." In my head I hear 'because I love you', but we all know this is a passing dream that must never be uttered.


End file.
